


Plaything

by thehamburglarstears



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Emotional neglect, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Just a little harsher than usual lol, Maybe some dub-con, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pls love me anyway, Slightly OOC Negan, slight angst, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehamburglarstears/pseuds/thehamburglarstears
Summary: Negan doesn't always pay equal attention to his wives, so you've found out. To make matters worse, someone else has caught your eye and you're no longer sure an illegitimate marriage is worth sacrificing the opportunity for something real.**Negan/Reader, Simon/Reader**





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all~  
> this is my first ever fic and i'm just testing the waters with an idea i've had for a while. this chapter is just kind of an introduction to see who's interested in this lil story of mine, future additions will be longer!! 
> 
> feedback of all kinds is welcome & encouraged!!

"Negan," you say matter of factly, walking into his quarters with your arms crossed over your chest and a determined frown plastered across your face.

He looks up from whatever his current focus is, raising his brows at your arrival. "Yes, dear wife?" 

"I don't know how else to do this..." You start, pursing your lips in thought mid-statement. Negan impatiently gestures for you to continue, his curiosity obviously having been piqued. Glancing at him nervously, you clear your throat and continue. "...but I figure it's the best way to go about this without anyone losing their life." 

And now you know you've got him as he drops whatever he's doing to place his hands upon his desk and lean forward, giving you his full attention. 

"I like Simon," you blurt, _just_ wanting to get it over with at this point. You try your best not to focus on the flicker of excitement in his eyes as his brows shoot upward in surprise. "...like, a lot. I-I... haven't done anything about it, though, I mean... I don't think he even knows, but... I wanted you to know! Because I'm not... I don't think I should be here anymore, Negan. I don't think I'm ready to give up the possibility of a relationship with someone who... Puts butterflies in my belly every time they look my way just for a hot shower and-and… a fresh change of clothes every morning. It doesn’t feel right anymore--," 

"Woah, woah, _woah_ , doll, don't forget the mind-blowing sex," he smirked, seemingly unfazed by your admission. You know better than to assume that, however. 

But you hadn't finished with your twelve-times rehearsed speech; as a matter of fact, you weren't even halfway through what you'd at first drafted to say to him. You open your mouth, ready to give Negan the full run-through when he holds up a gloved hand in an effort to silence you. He shakes his head.

"Nuh-uh," was all he said, at first, looking down toward his desk and chuckling weakly. "Oh, _shit_. This... This is new, Y/N. Haven't had a single one of ya leave yet, and now... Shit, you're leavin' me because you got a little crush? On _Simon_? And he doesn't even _know_?"

You blush and turn your head, suddenly beginning to lose the confidence you'd spent two whole sleepless nights building. You had neither the energy nor the will to look at him; this... _Is it a good idea?_ You'd never been certain, but now... 

You see him reach for something out of your peripheral vision. Unable to contain your curiosity, you turn back just enough to notice the walkie in his hand and your stomach drops. Instantly, you know what he's going to do. And you're not the least bit ready for it. "N-no, Negan, there's no-- you don't need to do that!" 

He grins, lifting the plastic box to his mouth with that signature Negan _sparkle_ in his eye. The one that scared you into agreeing to this arrangement in the first place, the one that intimidated you right into the first ever set of pristine lace you'd touched. The first of many to come. But still, panic is consuming you and you have to fight the growing urge to leap over his desk and rip the damn thing from his hands. The radio comes to life. 

"Negan, don't-- I'll tell him m-my--," 

"Simon, you in the vicinity?" 

You nearly faint at the sound of his voice on the other end, unable to help the sudden onslaught of dull excitement dancing within your belly. **"Yep."** Was all he said, and that's all you needed to hear for your breath to catch in your throat and your insecurity to max out. _Simon is coming._

"Come see me. Top floor."

**"On the way, boss."**

You charge forward, finding your footing now that the damage had been done. Negan isn’t the least bit surprised to see you do so, his smirk never faltering as you approach the edge of his desk. “Why? What are you doing?” You hiss, knowing you had very little right to be mad in your position. _But… he had even less of a right to do that! Right?_

Negan shrugs, that damn casual grin igniting an annoyance in you that you could do nothing but bite back as you stare daggers into his face. “You’re willin’ to give all this up over a fuckin’ _crush_ ,” he says, eyes flitting to the doorway expectantly before returning to your face. “‘Figured you could at least tell the man yourself.” 

“And I _will_ ,” you hiss, leaning forward so that your faces are inches apart. You can smell him, his cologne drifting toward you and nearly causing you to choke; it doesn’t smell bad to you, _honestly_ , but after a year or so of being suffocated in the scent, it had lost most of its pleasantness. “On my _own_ time, Negan!” 

He chuckles darkly at the comment, leaning so closely into you that your noses might have brushed if you moved, his breath barely hitting your face. “Your time is my time, baby. Don’t you know that by now?” 

Three quick raps on the door has you reeling backward, coming to stand to the side of Negan’s desk with your arms folded neatly behind your back, a position you take almost instinctively. You don’t have time to consider it nor your _husband’s_ reaction to it because Simon has now entered the room! The door swings open and he saunters in, everything about him from his mustache to the way his hands always drift to the front of his belt igniting something in you that you can’t quite place. You always notice it, notice _him_ when he walks into a room, but… like all of the other men in Sanctuary, his eyes rarely dare wander towards you. You sigh at the thought, starting to lose yourself in it until Negan’s voice brings you back to reality. _Here we go_.

“I’ve got some news for you, Simon,” he claps his hands together as the words leave his mouth, abandoning his desk and standing. You see Simon smirk, his eyes never once drifting your way. You turn your gaze downward and close yours. 

“Oh?” He says, obviously unsure of the nature of this ‘news’. You can hear the curiosity in his voice, but you’ve managed to separate yourself from the room as much as you can manage, your eyes squeezed shut as if it were going to stop the inevitable. 

“Hell yeah, I do,” Negan snickers, a sudden change in volume alerting you that he’d gotten closer. Which probably means that Simon’s gaze has fallen on you at this point, as the focus of the conversation shifts to its very purpose. “You’ve met Y/N, haven’t ya?” 

“Can’t say I have,” Is all you hear, your vision still… well, nonexistent, as you continue to stand with your eyes screwed shut like you’re having a panic attack. “She looks sick, boss.”

That’s when you come back to life, your head lifting and eyes opening to drink in the slightly concerned expression of Negan’s right-hand man, _finally_ able to fully appreciate the unique shade of brown. You can’t help it, you blush. 

Negan is, of course, immensely amused by the exchange, seeming to momentarily forget the purpose of calling Simon to his quarters in the first place. He remembers, though. He always remembers. “Y/N here is-- _was_ \-- wife number…?” He looks your way. 

“Th-three,” You manage to mumble, Simon’s gaze easily leaving you in favor of Negan. You can’t help but feel a pang of hurt skitter through your chest at the action, wishing for that fairy tale moment… That automatic connection between two people that you had always read about. The spark they write songs about, the spark you’d always sort of believed you’d experience one day… It didn’t happen. It didn’t come. 

Negan doesn’t miss the look that crosses your features, in fact, he _indulges_ in it. “What do ya think of her, Simon? Think she’s pretty?” 

Simon clears his throat and takes a hesitant step toward you, eyeing your figure. He doesn't look particularly impressed, which somehow makes you feel even smaller. “She's about as pretty as the rest of 'em, boss. Good catch.” 

_Is that really all he has to say?_ You think, suddenly unable to meet either of the men's gazes. Negan chuckles again. “She prettier than Frankie?”

Simon scoffs, though you can't force yourself to meet his eyes as he says, “My favorite? Nah, boss, you know it's hard to top that one.” 

_Wait… his favorite?_ Your head shoots up, your jaw nearly hits the floor as you comprehend the true implication of Simon's statement. _His… favorite? He's allowed to have… favorites? Does Negan condone, no… encourage this?_

_Do they… do they do things together?_

You can't help the tears that threaten to rise, the lump in your throat making it harder to stay composed before the two men, one oblivious to your pain and the other absolutely _relishing_ it. 

“What if I told you…” 

_No._

“...That dear wife number three here,” Negan continues, patting your back for emphasis. “Has got a little crush on you, Simon?”

You have to look up, now. Your eyes hesitantly travel to Simon's face, mostly unchanging other than a slight brow raise in your direction. He smirks and opens his mouth to respond, but before you can do so, Negan is yelling. 

Louder. Clearer, closer than he was in your dream. 

 

_**“Up and at 'em, Y/N, you've been asleep half the goddamn day!”** _

Groaning, you lift your head from the bed you had called your own for just over a year now, rubbing at your sleepy eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Half past noon, honey,” he booms, tapping loudly on the clock next to the bed for emphasis. “Too goddamn late to be layin’ around, even if you _don't_ have a job.”

You sit up, throwing your bare legs over the side of the bed, uncaring of the fact that you're naked in front of Negan. Hell, he's your husband, why should you care? 

_He sure doesn't_. You look up at him. “What? No inappropriate comments about my titties this morning? No telling me to stay where I am while you grab your fucking Polaroid because _apparently_ I'm better jerk off material than a plaything? Because you can get off to me, but _I'm_ not worth getting o--,” 

You're not sure where your outburst came from, but that aside, it's short-lived. Negan is at your throat in seconds, literally, his hand wrapped around your neck in a threatening grip-- not enough to hurt, no, just enough to make you _remember_. You gulp, and you wonder if he can feel it beneath his hand. 

“You wanna say that again, dollface?” 

You close your eyes and sigh, unable to keep fighting. But you don't respond. 

Negan doesn't like that. He applies more pressure to his grip, urging you to meet his eyes, which are now darkened and reflect a mixture of irritation, amusement, and arousal. He prompts you to lie back down and you oblige, knowing what happens next.

“ _Inappropriate_ , huh?” He grunts, stepping away to rid himself of his leather. He doesn't completely derobe, _no_ , he's far too busy of a man to fully commit to this act, with you, as demonstrated by the way he places his walkie on the nightstand nearest to the both of you. You watch as his hands travel to the front of his pants, freeing his hardened length from the denim confines. _Of course_ , you think to yourself, _rock fucking hard already_. 

You spread your legs on instinct when he leans forward and he snickers at the action, prodding your entrance with the tip of his length. You want this, you know it. Somewhere deep down, you know this is what you've been craving. _This is what's been missing, the only reasons I've been having those stupid thoughts about--!_

“Oh, _Negan_ ,” you gasp, feeling him suddenly buried deep inside in a single thrust, giving you no time to acclimate to his size before he’s moving. 

“Since when is it... _inappropriate_... for a man to compliment his wife?” He grunts, speaking somewhat fluidly between his rapid movements, driving himself in and out of you at an increasing pace. You can’t help it, you reach for him, grasping his forearms as they come to land on either side of you, caging you in. 

You can't do anything but moan as he rocks his hips back and forth into yours, his pace quickening till you can barely stand it. It had been so long since he'd given you such vigorous attention, you can't help the way your eyes roll back and your nails dig into the skin of his arm as he fucks you, your release quickly approaching. You don't have a chance to communicate that to Negan before his hand comes down over your mouth forcefully. 

“I think you've forgotten who you're talking to, Y/N,,” he growls between thrusts, “Who am I, baby?” 

You only whine in response when he removes his hand, _not the answer he's looking for_. 

“C'mon, baby, say my name.”

He finally coaxes it out of you, your orgasm hits along with a desperate cry for Negan, for your husband. He follows you in release by only seconds, not bothering to remove himself as he spills deep inside you, a symbol of claim if nothing else. 

With a sigh, he pulls away, and you close your eyes, feeling even less motivated to move than you had when you were barely awake. 

“Your ass better be up and dressed all nice and pretty by the time I get back to the wives’ chambers,” he grunts out, followed by a crude **zip** and the sound of the door closing. You take a deep breath, eyes still closed, and do your best to pretend you're somewhere else… 

Anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment if you enjoyed!! it's fuel for the mind~


	2. it's not the waking, it's the rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Simon have an interesting exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry if updates are taking a lil' while... since this is my first story, i'm trying to make sure every chapter is as close to perfect as i can manage in a timely manner lol!! 
> 
> i hope you all enjoy!!   
> consider leaving a comment if you do~ i'd love to hear your thoughts!

When you see Frankie, sitting alone on the loveseat in her respective black dress, you have an inexplicable urge to accompany her-- all entirely relative to the dream, you suppose. Typically, she's more social of the wives, as she was wife number two, and so you know it to be unusual for her to be caught so isolated. You take advantage of it, your dream still fresh on your mind. 

“Hey,” is all you can think to say, joining her on the loveseat. She turns to you, a small smile on her lips.

“You're up later than usual,” she says, “Was it your night last night?”

You shake your head. “No, but it was my morning, apparently. It's been a while since the first thing I've had to do in a morning is shower all of the… Negan off of me,” you sigh, your eyes drifting to the others, all in various states of mundane relaxation. That's what came with being a wife, unfortunately. A lot of boredom. 

Frankie chuckles at your comment. “Oh, yeah, his all nighters were rough… Hasn't done a whole lot of those since all of this… Community drama, though.” Her eyes meet yours, filling with realization. “But you probably know all about that, huh?”

You blush. It was true; it was common knowledge, actually, among the wives that Negan often used your nights as his ‘thinking time’ instead of ‘wife screwing time’, per his own language. While it left some of the others feeling a little jealous that you rarely had to spread your legs in exchange for commodities, you felt a little neglected by your husband and how he chose to spend his time. 

You don’t know, really, when the divide between you and Negan had begun. You were wife number three out of what would become four, five, maybe six; you'd stopped counting as you watched them, how they'd all file in and rotate out of his bedroom, only for your night to come around and you to receive a simple “too much on my mind tonight, honey” more and more often. It was daunting, to be glued to a man who gave you both the world and nothing at all. You love Negan, you have to; the only alternative is to _be_ him. Which is not a life you feel you can adapt to quite as easily as you had to that of a wife. 

With a sigh, you watch as the door to the wives’ chambers is kicked open and Negan strides in, Lucille in tow. His eyes fall to you immediately, a quick wink putting your stomach in knots. “I’m afraid I’m gonna be gone a couple of nights, angels,” he says, coming to take a seat between you and Frankie; it’s a tight squeeze, but _he_ doesn’t appear to mind as he throws his arms around both of your shoulders, resulting in an uncomfortable shuffle on either side, which he ignores. “As you all know, we're inductin’ a new wife tomorrow! I've gotta set some time aside for that and all its _associated_ festivities, on top of an overnight run requirin’ my presence the very next day. One of our community's havin’ a problem with _another_ community... Nothin’ you girls needa worry about, in that department, just be sure to welcome the newest angel to the bunch with open arms. Haven't had any conflict between you all yet and I _don't_ expect that to change _any_ time soon,” 

You and Frankie exchange concerned glances, but nothing is said as Negan continues. “Party’s tonight, wedding’s tomorrow, you know the drill. Leavin’ the next day, Simon and Regina are in charge and all that good shit-- behave for ‘em, alright?”

The knots in your stomach tighten at the mention of Simon; you can’t help the way you react. You’re sent reeling backward into your dream from the night before, the disheartening disinterest plain on his face as your heart sunk to the ground. You sigh. Loudly.

A little too loudly. 

“Everything _okay_ , Y/N?” 

Negan’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. Having forgotten that you were in his presence, you allowed yourself a moment to slip away from the room, a mistake you were due to pay for. You turn to him with wide eyes, a storm of thoughts brewing behind them. “Huh...? Oh! Yes, I’m… I’m fine, sorry.” 

His focus is entirely on you now and his other arm slips from Frankie’s shoulders-- you very seriously doubt she minds, though. His body shifts toward yours as a hand lifts to cup your cheek. He chuckles as you shudder beneath his touch; he leans forward, your noses barely brushing. “Do I need to speak with you in _private_ , Y/N?” 

You shake your head vigorously; one round with Negan was enough to get you through the day and _then_ some. After all, you’d proven to yourself that sex with your husband- though undeniably _awesome_ -wasn’t enough to rid yourself of your thoughts of… 

“Simon, what do ya need?” 

**“Boss, we got a little problem on the outside. Code orange. They have meds and-- ah, you’re just gonna wanna see this.”**

He’d radioed in, apparently, whilst you were lost in your staring contest with Negan. Someone had stolen something from the Sanctuary and was on the run; Negan wouldn’t typically need to deal with this personally, but since Simon is calling it in, you assume that it’s an unusual situation. 

With a sigh, he withdraws from you and stands. “Alright, ladies,” he mutters before lifting Lucille over his shoulder and moving toward the door. “Guess freaky-deaky’s gonna have to wait. I will see _one_ of you lucky gals tonight,” he takes a moment to grin at you all before departing. You feel a shift the second he leaves, almost as if a collective sigh of relief is let out between all… five… six? of you. Again, you’d stopped counting long ago. 

You turn back to Frankie, who appears to be lost in her own thoughts. Vacantly, you wonder if everything is alright with her, but the part of you still sour from the night before chooses to ignore those thoughts for making a daring move: slipping away from the wives’ chambers while Negan dealt with the code orange downstairs. 

It wasn’t prohibited for wives to wander, but Negan wasn’t very fond of the idea. Lucky for you, nothing bad had come of it yet and so he couldn’t rightfully instate a rule that said you _couldn’t_ leave. Today, you had decided, you were going to take advantage. Normally, your time as a wife would be spent in anticipation of your husband’s return, usually just half drunk enough to forget how miserable your life really was-- _today_ , you say to yourself, _will not be another one of those days_. 

Slipping on a pair of black flats in place of heels to match your dress, you make your way out of the suite and smile at the hall's guards as they allow you access to the stairwell. You get about halfway down to the next floor before hearing it, a voice approaching from the opposite way. Immediately registering that it isn't Negan, you're at first content to continue skipping downward… that is, until you realize who it _is_. 

Simon. 

At first, you attempt to scramble back up to your floor, knowing that facing your husband's right-hand man was less than ideal for you now _in more ways than one_ but your flats don't quite have the traction needed to prevent you from slipping and falling-- and well, that's exactly what you do. 

“Oh, shit,” is all you hear above you as your hands immediately fly to the hem of your dress, adjusting the garment before attempting to pull yourself up from the tumble you'd taken. “It's… a wife? What the hell are you doin’ wandering around outside the quarters, huh?” 

Simon's gruff voice brings you back to reality completely, your eyes widening upon the realization of what had just happened. You look up to meet his gaze, which seems annoyed more than anything else. You can do no more than stare wordlessly, appreciating the golden hues in his light brown eyes, and more than anything else, the lack of heartbreaking indifference as they'd shown in your dream. You catch yourself nearly smiling when he sighs and holds out his hand, offering to help you up. You take it immediately, thanking him in a high pitched voice, not unlike the squeak of a mouse. 

“I'm sorry, I… he didn't tell me I couldn't go out today, so I wanted to… explore a bit? I'm bored…”

Simon didn't look amused by your explanation, making eye contact with the lesser Savior that had also bore witness to your fall. “You didn't see this shit, kid, alright? I got it from here.”

The young man looks frightened, his eyes flitting between the two of you. It makes you wonder what Simon had been saying to him prior to your clumsy entrance. “B-but, sir, my training?” 

“I said go, kid, now scram!”

The underling does, in fact, scram as Simon returns his attention to you. His arms folded across his chest as he frowns at you, an eyebrow cocked incredulously. You begin to wonder what the deal is, but then he says, “Bored, huh? In the middle of the goddamn _apocalypse_ , you girls are _bored_?” 

Instead of pouting, you place a hand on your hip and cock a brow right back at the lanky bastard. “I didn’t ask for an _opinion_ on the matter,” you huff out, annoyed and slightly hurt by Simon’s commentary. He scoffs. 

“And I didn’t give ya one. It was a _question_.” 

_Oh, fuck you for managing to be attractive and an asshole all at once--!_

You roll your eyes, unthinking, turning on your heels with the intent to return to the familiar parlor-- sitting half-drunk in wait of Negan’s return had begun to seem exponentially better of an idea. You’re barely able to release an indignant huff before Simon has taken hold of your forearm, pulling you back toward him. You’ve disregarded one of the characterizing factors about him, it seems: his temper. 

“You want somethin’ to do, doll? It can be arranged. I’m sure your _husband_ won’t mind if I’m watchin’,” he says, lowly. Too low. It was almost a growl. 

You pull away from him, more irritated than fearful. “Simon, that’s _enough_ ,” you hiss, watching an amused grin spread across his face. 

“I like you,” he chuckles, eyeing you from the top of your head to the flats on your feet. You barely withhold a blush, relishing the attention. _Finally_. “Really though-- Negan's out, you wanna explore? I'll be your fuckin’ guide.” 

You beam at him, unable to contain most of your excitement at the prospect. Two of your favorite things: Getting _out_ of that damn parlor, and… Simon? You shake the thought and instead nod enthusiastically, something in the back of your mind telling you that this is _not_ a good idea. 

“I’m afraid I can't let you do any manual labor,” he says, descending the staircase just ahead of you. “Have you eaten? We can head to the kitchens, I'm not sure how the whole food thing works for you guys--,” 

“I haven't, actually,” you blurt, having disregarded the basic human need until now. “I… slept late today.” 

Simon throws you a look over his shoulder; you were certain it had something to do with some kind of inner cynicism regarding the fact that you'd been granted the ability to _sleep in_. During the end of the goddamn world. 

All you do is huff and continue following him to the kitchens. 

 

“So… how'd you meet Negan?” You prod, munching idly on a rib of celery dipped in homemade peanut butter-- you'd mentioned the “meal” without much thought, eyes widening in shock when the kitchen had _actually_ produced your request without argument. 

_A wife_ , you remembered as Simon narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing. 

You feel somewhat hurt by the way Simon is treating you, yet you know very well that you can’t blame him. You had it _easy_. Truth be told, the main reason you rarely left the parlor was _not_ Negan; it was the way Simon is looking at you right now, your dainty hand gripping a piece of celery that would have cost anyone else an arm and a leg worth of points to have acquired _that_ fresh. You know that look. You know that feeling. 

You sigh, setting the celery down when he doesn’t answer. “I’ll, uh… Just take this upstairs and let you--,” 

“I can’t tell you that,” he grunts, finally, sounding miffed. You frown and pick up your snack once more, lifting it to your lips as you cock your head at him. “Why do you wanna know?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I wanna know? Negan doesn’t tell us _anything_ ,” You counter.

He lifts a brow at the statement. “You know why,” is all he grunts out in response, turning his attention to an apple he’d picked up on your run to the kitchen. He’s got out a knife, peeling the skin with it skillfully, seamlessly; your eyes are drawn there also. 

“What do you mean?” You mumble, barely audible as you watch his fingers trail the knife’s sturdy blade beneath the delicate surface of the fruit, slow, steady. He’s taking his time. You watch the way the sharpened blade slips effortlessly between the skin and the deliciousness beneath, slowed still so as to avoid edges in the final product. 

He barely glances up, still fixed on the fruit in his hands, as are you. “When you signed that paper,” he mutters, voice somewhat distant. Almost scornful, but not towards you. “Gave yourself to him. You signed away your association with the _real_ world. ‘Least, that’s how he sees it.”

You force yourself to close your eyes as he nears the end of the apple, letting out an incredulous huff. _Like you and every other member of the Sanctuary don’t express your intense distaste with the arrangement any chance you get--!_ “You sure he’s the only one who feels that way?”

And finally, his eyes meet yours. He opens his mouth to speak, but unfortunately, the blade of the knife slips and he manages to cut his finger, having taken his gaze away from the still-moving steel for just a second too long. He hisses in pain, immediately wrapping his now bleeding thumb in the fabric of his shirt. You rush to his aid on instinct, pulling a paper towel from the stack the kitchen had provided you with. “Here,” you sigh, pulling his arm ‘till he relaxes his grip and his thumb slips, with some resistance, from the bloodied fabric. “God only knows where that thing’s _been_.” 

 

It took some coaxing, but _finally_ Simon allows you to properly dress his wound-- infection is no joke during the endtimes and it’s shocking, frankly, that you have to do so much convincing to get him to take it seriously. There’s something oddly charming to you, however, about the way he grumbles when you fret over him; he resists, sure, but he never tries to undermine you nor push you away. He listens in the end, and you can’t help but smile.

“Have you had enough wanderin’ yet? I should check in with Negan, ‘see if the party’s still on--,”

You cock a brow and tilt your head at the statement. _What happened out there?_

Simon registers your reaction immediately and groans, realizing he’s said just a hair too much. “Shit-- don’t… don’t mention anything to the other wives, alright? Keep this between--,”

“Why wouldn’t the party still be on?” You frown, taking a hesitant step forward. “What happened out there?”

He only sighs in response, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Negan’s new wife? _Fiancée_ or whatever? She fuckin’ fleed. Took her whole family with her and a shit ton of meds. Negan’s out lookin’ with the other lieutenants as we speak. I’m only here to hold down the fort.”

You can do little more than gawk, brows upturned in surprise. “She… _left_? She just… _took off_?” 

You can’t lie, the thought has crossed your mind in the past. The night before your union with Negan was highly emotional, spent cowering in the wives’ parlor with Frankie patting your arm in reassurance that you’d made the right decision. That life with someone like Negan is significantly better than that without. And while you wanted so badly to believe it, you had never been able to shake the feeling that maybe… maybe you were wrong. 

The only thing stopping you from high-tailing it every time a Savior leaves the gate open is the fear that he’d come after you… or was it the fear that he wouldn’t? 

“Yeah, I know. _Dumb_ fuckin’ move, on her part. Lord only knows what’ll happen when they get found and brought back. All that insulin…,” he trails off, frowning in thought. You furrow your brows, too, considering the situation. 

It was unheard of. A wife had never left Negan, nonetheless… tried to abandon the entire compound. _Would this change anything?_ You consider, wistfully, somewhere in the back of your mind, entertaining the vision of a loving, more thoughtful Negan…

“Ya know, he probably woulda just let them go if it weren’t for all the meds,” he mumbles, finally shifting his gaze back toward you. You nearly jump at the suggestion, realizing the full weight of the statement. _He doesn’t care about the girl. He just wants his shit back._

“What are we to him?” You wonder aloud, without thought. Simon cocks his head but says nothing, taking your arm. 

“C’mon, let’s get you back with the others. And remember, _not a word_.” 

You nod as you follow him, head swimming with information and unanswered questions. As your eyes fell to where his large hand grips your forearm, gently but with a purpose, you silently hope that this secret would be the first of _many_ to befall yourself and your husband’s second-in-command. On that note, your heart skips a beat.


	3. everything with a price, my dear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flashback chapter!! maybe the first of many?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! soo sorry for the late post; finals are approaching and i've been crazy swamped. this is a flashback chapter, the change in tense was sort of a trial-run thing to indicate the fact that it's a flashback so i hope the flow isn't too weird when read altogether lol. 
> 
> anyway, as usual, PLEASE let me know if you enjoyed this!! hearing from you guys makes my day!!

**Flashback | Negan's Wife Count: 2**

Running. So much running. You were nearly certain that you’d run the bottoms of your shoes out, not that it would have been difficult to do so in their state of wear, as you felt every bit of debris on the forest floor when your feet hit the ground-- the flimsy tennis shoes doing nothing to protect you from the impact. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if your feet were bleeding in your shoes at this point, you had run so far. You felt your legs weakening, with every pounce forward but you were _determined_ to make it. The lights up ahead, the noises, sounds of life… you had to get there. Something was pulling you. 

You ignored the sounds that passed you, the barely-missed branches and suspicious movement that whizzed by as you continued, emboldened by the rapid beating of your heart-- the clearest reminder that you were alive. You had something to fight for. You kept running, skin sticky with sweat and hair whipping wildly alongside you as it had fallen from your half-ass bun about a mile or so back. You felt only a brief sadness at the loss of your only hair tie, which had been at your side since the beginning of the end, but knew you couldn't focus on that. You had to run. You ran until the trees ended and openness began, yet you barely noticed until you reached it. The source of the lights, the noise. 

The stark contrast of the feeling of solid gravel smacking the bottoms of your feet in a rough kiss jolted you as you realized you’d reached a stretch of road, ominous road that you didn't recognize. It didn't help that it was nighttime, but glancing in either direction, you found that you couldn’t identify any significant landmarks that ignited any sort of memory within the depths of your mind. 

_It’s so… dark_ , you realized suddenly. Where are the lights? The sounds of…

Horns. Car horns. No… truck horns. Loud, blaring, so incredibly close that you at first wondered if you were dreaming, falling to your knees in both surprise and exhaustion. You couldn't bring yourself to face the lights, so incredibly bright and close to your face that you, for a moment, wondered if it was a heavenly calling. 

Maybe it was.

After a few long moments spent sprawled on your hands and knees on this empty stretch of road, you heard the unmistakable crunch of boots on gravel approach. Unable to find the strength to look up, especially with that damn light still shining in your face, you didn't meet the stranger's eyes until they stood between you and the offending truck, casting a tall shadow over you. 

“You bit?” Was all they huffed out, sounding bored and maybe a bit irritated. He was barely a silhouette before the light, the brightness behind him shrouding him in darkness. Not that your eyes were being very cooperative at the moment, anyway. Your heart was pounding as if you were still on your feet, the rapid rise and fall of your chest accompanied by slight pain with every exhale. 

The stranger sighed, hand reaching for something on his hip. You closed your eyes for a moment, only to open them to an arm outstretched your way. You blinked. Multiple times, before realizing that the arm outstretched your way held a gun. 

You bolted upward with the strength remaining, eyes widening in instantaneous realization. “No!” You finally gasped, reaching for the stranger. “N-no, I was just… Running. I swear, I was just running,” Your heart hadn’t calmed quite yet and you weren’t certain if you’d be able to pull yourself up from the kneeling position you had assumed when clinging to the stranger hovering over you, but still, you conjured all of the stress you could muster as you reached for him, silently urging him to lower the weapon. 

You still couldn’t quite make out his face, the light behind him nearly blindingly bright. You could, however, see the way the offending weapon returned to his hip after a few moment's hesitation. He then held his hand toward you, prompting you to take it, which you did. The stranger pulled you to your feet, the brightness of the light fading as he tugged you to the side of the large truck. You could make out his features now-- stern, annoyed, _impatient_ were the first terms that came to your mind. His brows were furrowed as he gazed down at you, easily nearing a foot taller, his eyes scanning your body. You remember the most prominent feature of his being the _mustache_. You remember wondering how he managed to keep it so neat in the middle of the apocalypse, but it was a question you never did ask. 

Maybe one day.

“You look sick,” he noted, still examining you. You felt vulnerable with his sight locked on you; this was the first human interaction you’d encountered in months. Maybe even a year, at this point. You paused before responding. 

“I haven’t slept in a few days,” you answered truthfully, trying to meet his eyes. Perhaps he’d see your honesty. “And I’ve been running for a while now, I don’t… I don’t know where I am.” 

He nodded, wincing as the sound of static and distant voices filled the air. You jumped at the disturbance as he pulled from his belt an honest to god walkie-talkie. _Now, just, where the hell…?_

**“Where the hell are you, Simon? You were right behind us,”**

He pressed a button, grunting out a reply. “Ran into some trouble on the road. A woman ran out in front of the truck, I nearly hit her. She’s not bit so I’m thinkin’ about takin’ her to Negan.”

You frowned. _Negan? What the hell?_

As if on cue, this… _Simon_ turned to you. “Don’t worry, I--,” He began in a barely reassuring tone, cut off almost immediately.

The walkie came to life once more. It was a different voice. **“Me and Regina have this if you wanna head back before we get too far out.”**

His eyes still on you, Simon responded a bit hurriedly, “Yeah, lemme see what she wants to do and I’ll get back to ya, Gavin.”

“Wh-who’s Negan?” You blurt, eyes widened as you take a hesitant step back from the man. He lifts a brow and studies you once more, and again, you feel quite vulnerable in your unwashed clothes, with your tangled hair, covered in random bruises in various stages of healing. Survival was hard. 

“You all alone out here, sweetheart?”

His question took you by surprise. It wasn’t that you’d actually expected him to answer your own prying question, but the idea of him being concerned about any other potential members of a group gave you hope for whatever future that might lie ahead with this man. You shook your head. “No, it’s just me… It’s always been just me.” 

There was a dull flicker of sympathy in his gaze that you noticed before his eyes fled to the door of the truck. He sighed, opening it and gesturing for you to hop in. But still, you hesitated. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” You muttered, eyeing the vehicle skeptically. 

Simon chuckled, exasperation evident in his tone. “Negan? You’ll find out soon enough.” 

After a few more moments’ worth of coaxing, you slid into the passenger seat next to the man, cringing at the familiar yet distant feeling of being in a vehicle for the first time in several, several months. You’d done most of your traveling by foot or bike, when available, since the end-- tending to stick to the woods rather than the roads. 

During all of your time running, you’d found that humans were capable of much worse than the monsters they become when their hearts stop beating. 

 

“Where are we going?” You finally managed to ask after about half an hour of undeniably awkward silence, nothing to do but stare into the darkness ahead. _When will it end?_

Almost immediately Simon answered, “Sanctuary, young lady.” 

You scoffed. “Don’t call me that.” 

He chuckled, not diverting his attention from the road. 

Without further explanation from him, you grew antsy. You spoke again. “Can you be more specific?” You demanded, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He scoffed, still refusing to offer you a single glance. “How much more specific can I be? You're goin’ to a community, full of like minded people-- _survivors_. We'll cut ya a deal. If you can work, you can stay. If you can _really_ work, you can do more than just stay. And if you _can't_ work,” he looked at you then, his intense brown-eyed gaze traveling the length of your body. “...you might get to stay anyway. With a price.” 

You furrowed your brows. “A price?” 

He smiled, facing the road now. “Everything with a price, my dear. Boss doesn't give handouts.”

“I never asked for a handout,” you grumbled, turning to face the window. For the most part, you couldn't see anything. Just trees. The occasional roamer. And eventually, nothing, as your eyes began to close. 

“You want some advice before I deliver you to your new life?”

His voice ripped you from your sleepy trance almost instantly. It wasn't his words that stirred you, but the sincerity behind them. You hadn't spoken to Simon much since your unexpected introduction and much of your conversation had been less than pleasant, in your opinion. You blinked in response, gesturing for him to continue. 

“Do the work. Don't cause trouble. And keep your head down. You want a normal post-apocalyptic life? That's the best way to get it, sugar.” 

You raised your brows at the odd statement, suddenly feeling the need to curl into the seat rather than sit in it. _What have I gotten myself into?_ “Trouble?” You asked him, hesitant but curious. The smallness of your voice was sickening to you, but you ignored it in favor of pursuing more knowledge. 

Simon only sighed, his expression thoughtful and distant. He wanted there to be others. His heart had dropped the moment you let it slip that you were alone; being alone made you vulnerable. He couldn’t leave you; if you had refused his help, he may have even dragged you kicking and screaming if he had to because he couldn’t just _leave_ you. He hadn’t a clue what you were running from, but he knew that leaving you was not an option. 

Truth be told, he didn’t _want_ to take you to the Sanctuary alone. His boss had started traveling down a questionable road, taking to the idea of collecting females like prizes. It sickened him, the joy in Negan’s eyes when he confessed to Simon his interest in the idea. Simon had only smiled and thrown him an unenthusiastic “Sure, boss,” as he’d been expected to do. He’d even had the gall to try and warm Simon up to the idea, an invitation he’d quickly shut down. 

You were the textbook example of this, one of his… _wives_.   
_All we can do is wait,_ he thought, glancing at you, your gaze now pointed toward the darkness that lies beyond the glass. _And hope she makes the right decision._


	4. it's the grounding of a foot, uncompromising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! so so sorry for the wait!! i tackled my finals and started a new job and life has just been soooo darn crazy. things are better now, though, and i'm (hopefully) back on track. love you guys, i hope you like the new chapter!! 
> 
> plspls comment if you enjoy, it absolutely makes my day to read & respond to u!!! ❤️❤️

It’s a palpable sort of tension that fills the wives’ quarters when your husband returns. You hadn’t mentioned anything to the other wives, but they didn’t hide their skeptical glances when Simon escorted you back into the parlor. You merely shoot them all a weak smile and nod at Frankie in acknowledgment when she says your name. You join her on the loveseat again after that, this time sharing a drink or two as you fight the urge to warn the others of the news you’d just received. In the end, you decide it's better to hold your tongue; gossip is a nasty habit among the wives. No need making an awful situation worse. _Someone’s in for a rough night tonight,_ you think to yourself, eyeing the door anxiously as though expecting to see it kicked in off its hinges. _I hope it isn't me._

“Something's happening,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the parlor. You already know it, but now Frankie has picked up on it. The tension, the unusual quiet coming from below, the heavy footsteps approaching the door that you could all hear clearly. All eyes seem to fall toward the door as the steps grow louder and then away all at once as the knob turns impatiently quickly and the wood swings inward, hitting the wall with a _thud!_ that causes you to wince. In saunters Negan, in all his leathered glory, Lucille in tow. You turn your gaze away from him at once, opting instead to focus on the floor as the rest of the wives greet him hesitantly. You know what's coming, though, and focus on your flats that you still hadn't traded back for heels. _Maybe he won't notice._

"Is it time for the party?" Tanya speaks up, having a natural edge that none of the rest of you could muster. The venom in his gaze when he turns toward her, however, you're almost certain makes her wish she hadn't.

"Party," he repeats, chuckling to himself. He shakes his head. _One, two, three, four, five_ seconds pass before he addresses the rest of us. He lifts his head, a deceitfully polite smile spread across his undeniably handsome features. “I'm afraid there will be no fuckin’ party tonight, girls.”

You look up, then, eager to hear the results of the shitstorm that Simon had described. Negan's eyes aren't focusing on any of you, however, as he twirls Lucille absentmindedly in his grip, watching the light dance on the barbs. He continues. "Seems that our new recruit decided she'd rather be food for the dead than havin' her every womanly need catered to _on command_."

You fight the urge to scoff, instead opting to return your gaze to the floor in quiet contemplation. Negan's presence drifts from one side of the room to another, you deduce, as his voice travels with him. "Shocked the hell outta me too, girls.”

“So she just… left the Sanctuary?” Frankie speaks in a quiet gasp, you can practically feel the hesitation emanating from her as she tenses next to you. 

“Or did you kick her out?” Tanya adds, her edge impressively sharp. 

Negan turns to her right as you look up, his grin dangerous and attractive. “No, T,” he chuckled, his tone deceptively even. “I'm afraid that's not what happened.” 

He takes a seat in a chair opposite of the rest of you, the atmosphere thickening noticeably as he does so. You tense as his hazel eyes meet yours, suddenly thrown back to your tantrum from that morning and the way he'd handled you in response. 

_”C’mon, baby, say my name.”_

You look away. He, however, keeps on. “She was sick,” he explains, confirming information you all had already deduced via your own gossip. “Needed medicine-- medicine is _expensive_. Her family was strugglin’ and she was a pretty lil’ thing, so I said fuck it. I decided to be _generous_ , as you girls so often insist that I am not. I proposed! I invited her to our little girls’ club here, and all its perks and… festivities,” his eyes return to yours and then travel to Frankie, who immediately blushes. You furrow your brows, confused at the interaction that is taking place. _Festivities?_ If it weren’t for your dream, you may not have been so curious, but now…

“Anyway, somethin’ I said musta scared her or her family off-- or hell, maybe it was all of em’s idea. Personally, I have a hard time believin’ that much _stupidity_ could stir up outta three people but, hell, this world is always throwin’ weird shit at me!” He rambles on, cradling his beloved bat loosely in his lap. “They left. They stole all the fuckin’ insulin they could get their thievin’ hands on and hauled ass, effectively _ruining_ my day. What do you girls know about me, huh? What’s one thing you all’ve come to learn? Amber? _Y/N_?”

Amber ducks her head down, avoiding the conversation. But you know he isn’t looking at her; his gaze is fixed on you, analyzing you, making you feel vulnerable. He had a knack for that. You clear your throat and answer weakly. “You don’t like sharing.” 

He chuckles immediately at your answer, closing his eyes briefly before growling out a response that makes your mouth contort into a frown. “Close, but no cigar, honey. I don’t mind _sharin’_ ,” his eyes fall back to Frankie and your stomach churns slightly. “Not all the time.”

He clears his throat and stands. “It’s _taking_. It’s being _greedy_. It’s stakin’ a claim on something that ain’t yours, it’s…” He trails off, a nonchalant twirl of Lucille bringing your attention directly to him. 

The room is silent for a moment, each of you busy pretending that you’re elsewhere. You count the seconds in your head that it takes for him to resume his rant. _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…_

“She didn’t make it home,” he clarified with a dark chuckle and shake of his head. “And neither will _any_ of you if you try that shit, you hear me? You don’t run out on me, you don’t steal from me, and you most certainly don’t take ad-fuckin’-vantage of me, is that clear?” At this point, he’s shouting-- or at least, it feels like it. None of you can meet his gaze as he paces the room, on the brink of a full-on tantrum. You wonder if the rest of the floor can hear him; you wonder if the floor _beneath_ you can hear it.

You wonder if Simon can hear it. 

“...-she’s gone, but her thievin’ family? They’re still around. And, _oh_ , are they gonna feel the impact of what she’s fuckin’ done, of what they _all_ did. _Someone’s_ got to!” 

You wince at the increase in volume, the pointedness of his tone, though seemingly at no one in particular. You feel heat in your cheeks, a lump in your throat, and a wetness in your eyes as the words dance into and out of existence, falling upon you harshly as they often do. _Is this who I married?_

_**Why?** _

“And I swear to whatever God’s left up there, the _same_ fate will befall any one’a’you if you _ever_ try to pull that shit on me,” he promises, his slow pacing coming to a halt and his hazel eyes narrowing, traveling the expanse of the room. “I invited each one of you into my home, offered you my protection, _provided_ said protection, and ya know what? You’d all be _**nothin’**_ without it.”

You’re surprised that you’ve held it together this long. You stare at the floor, focusing on the single stain on the otherwise spotless fabric of the black flats upon your feet; there’s a barely noticeable speck of red on the lace detail. You silently wonder whether it came from Negan’s last _punishment_ that you so happened to bear witness to, or if it is the result of a much more pleasant memory, spent with a much more pleasant man. 

You’re shaken from your thoughts at the sudden movement; Frankie has been all but snatched up from her seat, Negan’s grip assertive and bruising on her upper arm. There’s a redness in her cheeks that you know well; a night with Negan is never wasted in terms of pleasure. You all knew that to be fact; perhaps it’s one of the reasons you’ve stayed so long. The man has his talents.

And the smirk he delivers to you as he drags Frankie to the door is confirmation that he _knows_ it. You quickly turn your attention back to your feet, but he calls you. Your eyes meet his. 

“Smile, princess. Maybe it’ll be you next time.”

 _Maybe_.

\----

When he’s gone, you run. You can only assume that it would be a long night and that he would be busy for a while, as had been the case in the past when he’s returned to the chambers pissed off and smelling like whiskey. You cringe at the passing reminder of the scent. 

With the intention to go outside, the thought of a coat slips your mind completely as you _just_ want to get out and _fast_. You walk the length of the hall, but do so hurriedly; you barely pay attention to the guard greeting you at the stairwell as he raises a brow but allows you by, having little hesitation in letting you descend. You don’t even notice the way the steps creak with an eerie unfamiliarity as you follow them down, pushing through the door that you _know_ will lead you to the first exit, most likely unguarded. You’re all but running at this point, the thin bottoms of your flats smacking the concrete floors with one unpleasant jolt after another. You keep going, the determination overwhelming, your lungs almost aching for the intake of any air that hadn’t been completely tainted by…

_”--direct orders from Negan!”_

You stop, nearly toppling over at the realization that you hadn’t been running toward the exit after all. You catch yourself before tripping, indulging in a quick look around to deduce that you’d gone in exactly the opposite direction; you had wound up by the cells. 

“What have I…?” You mutter to yourself quietly before the squeaking hinges of a heavy door call your attention. Your eyes fall upon Simon, at the far end of the corridor, delivering a harsh blow to the face of a disheveled man. There was a faint familiarity in his features, a nagging feeling ringing in your chest that you knew him from somewhere, you’d seen him with Negan…

… _When he proposed to that girl._

“Oh, god,” you throw a hand over your mouth as the whisper leaves your lips, though Simon appears to be too preoccupied to pay your end of the hall any mind. The man-- related to the escape in some way --does nothing as Negan’s second in command throws several more wallops his way, leaving him bloody and surely bruised. 

You witness the man, beaten and (probably) broken, fall to his knees and declare his allegiance, weakly before Simon shoves him roughly into the cell behind him. “Not good enough, _Dwight_. The boss’ll be here for ya come mornin’. Be ready, that’s a warning I don’t give everyone dumb enough to land their asses in a cell.”

When the heavy door slams shut, you know you should run. Simon _cannot_ see you here. You back up slowly, hoping that a quiet escape is the best method, watching as he reaches for his radio and fiddles with it for a moment. _Great, he’s occupied for at least…_

He turns in your direction and you stop, the focused look falling from your face and immediately replaced by one of fear. His gaze meets yours, shifting from anger to confusion to _palpable_ frustration. With a groan, he starts the march toward you before you can even turn around. You continue backing up, hoping to feel the door graze your back at some point, but it doesn’t; Simon’s purposeful steps land him before you sooner than expected. 

“Hey!” He calls after you when you _finally_ find it within you to turn, taking your forearm in his calloused hand. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

Your eyes are wide and fearful, falling to his aggressive grip before searching out Simon’s in hopes of finding even the faintest glimmer of sympathy; for what, you weren’t sure. 

“N-Negan’s gone to bed,” you mumble, your voice somewhat shaky from adrenaline. “He took Frankie with him, s-so… It’ll probably be a little while.” 

Simon raises a brow, but doesn’t release you; actually, you detect a light squeeze accompanying his next statement. “It’s after dark. Negan doesn’t even like you girls wandering off during the day, but at night? And why the fuckin’ cells? What’s back here, huh?” 

“I thought I was-... I was looking for the exit! I just needed some air,” you breathe, finally allowing yourself to look away. “...could you take me there?” 

There’s a moment in which neither of you speak, your arm falling from his tight clutch. You wonder what thoughts are going through his mind in those few seconds, you wonder if he’s even looking _at_ you, your head hung low in defeat. He sighs.

“You’re gonna catch a fucking cold out there in that dress.”

You don’t move. “Why do you care?” 

“Because Negan cares.”

“Bullshit!” You hiss, meeting his brown orbs- shocked by the coolness residing there. And was that… sympathy? Surely you were mistaken. You continue. “He doesn’t _really_ care! We’re prizes, Simon! Trophies! His status symbols dressed as damsels in distress-- if he _really_ wanted to help, he’d have done exactly that! We didn’t ask for it to be this way… We just need help, Simon. We just needed help and he…”

“What? _Gave_ it to you? You signed up for this, darlin’,”

“I didn’t… I wouldn’t have…” You close your eyes before the tears can make it out of them. 

_”You should have listened to me,”_ he said abruptly, stepping forward. Dangerously close. Facing him, you find a shocking sincerity plain upon his features; there’s disappointment there, as well. “The night I picked you up.”

_He remembers…?_

“I told you to keep your head down!” He hisses, quiet but deadly. You, alone, can feel the blunt edge of his irritation press against you. There’s no one else around to catch the excess. Your brows furrowed in disbelief, you stand still as he rambles on. “I told you to be careful, to do the work, stay out of fuckin’ trouble. How hard can that _be_ , huh? If you woulda just _listened_ to me--,”

“I would have been alone here!” You counter, just as quiet, just as assertive. You’d found your footing. “And vulnerable!” 

He sighed, dragging a rough palm down the length of his obviously agitated features. “There are people her who would've-- we protect our people, Y/N!”

Your face fixes into a frown at this, your brows furrow. You don’t remember giving him your name, not since…

“Y/N?” 

You go stiff. The gravelly growl of a voice was the last one you’d expected to hear. _How did he know?_ Your heart drops into your stomach as he advances from the opposite end of the corridor, the dim lights illuminating the amused curiosity in his expression. You look to Simon, whose expression has contorted from one of anger to apprehension rather quickly. 

“What are you doin’ outside of the parlor this late at night, sweet thing? This side of the buildin’ is off limits, you know that.”

You can’t quite piece together what his business here is; is Frankie okay? Is _he_? You were positive that you’d all be in for a long night of burying your heads in your pillows to drown out the sounds of… _well, you know._

When you don’t respond, he looks to his right-hand man who had, thankfully, backed a few steps away from you. “Simon, you takin’ care of my girl? Keepin’ her sweet?”

“Was just tellin’ her she’s got no business down here, s’all. I was gonna call you up but she said you were… Down for the night. Seems she wasn’t bein’ totally honest with me.” At that, he shoots you a glare. You return the gesture.

Negan’s darkened chuckle comes from beside you now, causing you to jump. A heavy hand on your shoulder and a flirty glance in your direction tell you that his attention is now fixed on your entirely in this situation. When you look around again, Simon is gone. He’d left so quickly that you can’t rule out having simply imagined him. 

With another confused glance around the area, you succumb to your husband’s persistent grasp as he pulls you back in the direction you’d come. “Let’s go back, honey. I gotta talk to you about somethin’."


End file.
